


Fatshedera lizei, or how to tell a demon you know (who is in no way a friend at all) that you may have given him a really unsuitable gift

by Nemeris (Eris18)



Series: herbarum amicitiam [2]
Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Have you met him, M/M, Mostly it's Crowley being a massive dumb baby about being ill, Sick Character, There is a vague reference to puking in this, because of course he would
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-13
Updated: 2019-06-13
Packaged: 2020-05-07 04:22:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,194
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19201801
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eris18/pseuds/Nemeris
Summary: There were limp leaves and aphid blighteverywhereand it was very distressing, especially as Crowley simply did not have the energy to do anything about it right now. He was going to discorporate surrounded by subpar greenery.





	Fatshedera lizei, or how to tell a demon you know (who is in no way a friend at all) that you may have given him a really unsuitable gift

**Author's Note:**

> This is a repost, because AO3 did a weird thing with the fic listing. Anyway, enjoy part 2!

Crowley was _dying_ , he was sure of it. He was discorporating slowly, through disease. He didn’t like it. There were so many better ways of discorporating1, and honestly “being ill to death” was one of the most boring. 

He sniffled, feeling thoroughly sorry for himself as was his right at this moment in time. He was currently sitting2 in his office throne, wrapped in a blanket, and sipping on some sort of soup3. He supposed he _had_ gone native, if he was actually _eating_. 

It had been like this for three days; he’d even had to cancel appointments4, so he was really quite annoyed at everything. Wandering around his abode listlessly may have been in fashion just before and during the Regency period, but Crowley had been asleep for pretty much all of that. It did _not_ mean he wanted to make up for lost time now and spend his last remaining days on Earth moping around like Percy Bysse Shelley5. 

It had been Thursday when Crowley had first woken up wheezing, heaving, and eyes streaming. He’d been out the night before with Aziraphale at one of their usual dinners - this time at a small but enjoyable (according to Aziraphale) family restaurant in Kensington6. Ever since the star moss incident (which they never spoke about), Aziraphale had been trying to convince Crowley to try some of the newer places to eat in London. This particular establishment had opened its doors in 1962, which counted as new enough in Crowley’s book7. 

Of course, Crowley knew there was always one particular contingency plan: discorporate and move on. But if he was honest with himself8, he _liked_ this form, he was used to it and its particular hip-based saunter. Anyway, Hell’s current spare seemed...inelegant, given that said person purveyed a particular form of ignominious fame as desirable. That, and his fashion sense involved high-waisted trousers. Ugh. No. 

Crowley pouted, staring at his phone. He knew he needed help figuring out what to do next, or how to fight off this particular illness, but the mere idea of picking up the phone and calling the one person he knew would rush over with no judgement was almost too much for his demonic pride. He’d found himself with his hand hovering over the telephone receiver multiple times in the last hour alone, but he did not yet consider himself desperate enough to actually pick up and dial. 

He thought again about Wednesday evening, as he had done multiple times over the course of the past few days, and wondered if it could be anything he’d eaten. He could have asked around his fellow demons about the possibility of their kind getting some sort of food poisoning, but there were two problems with going down this avenue. One being that it would cause unbelievable levels of teasing about “going native”. The other reason was that since the whole failed Armageddon thing, Crowley and Hell weren’t really on speaking terms, and Crowley refused to be the first one to break and ask that lot for a favour. It was the _principle_ of the thing. 

He hadn’t even been able to perform minor demonic miracles, which was just _embarrassing_. This meant that the bowl of orange paste that he was currently nursing had, in fact, been made by hand. Crowley was trying not to think about this aspect of being ill too much, but he was sure it was a sign that the end was near and he would have to shuffle off this particular mortal coil...and go into one with absolutely terrible hair and no sense of style at _all_. 

So yes, Crowley was upset, and mopey. His plants were even beginning to gain confidence, which just rubbed him the wrong way entirely9. For now, he could put enough energy into glaring that they at least didn’t start getting their own ideas, but with every passing day the lack of directly hissed threats was taking its toll. There were limp leaves and aphid blight _everywhere_ and it was very distressing, especially as Crowley simply did not have the energy to do anything about it right now. He was going to discorporate surrounded by subpar greenery. 

The phone rang, interrupting Crowley’s moping10; the polite thing to do would be to answer. As he was feeling _just_ ill enough to _be_ polite, that is what Crowley did. 

“Anthony J. Crowley,” he said. “Speak.”11

“Crowley!” Aziraphale was far too chirpy to be speaking with someone as sick as Crowley. Thankfully, there was a delightfully long silence after Aziraphale’s initial greeting. Unfortunately, that silence was broken by the conversation continuing. “...How are you feeling?” 

“How do you bloody think I’m feeling, angel?” Crowley rasped. “I’m _dying_.” 

“Oh!” came Aziraphale’s response. Crowley was rather put out by this. Was that it? _That_ was the sum total of Aziraphale’s reaction to this situation? Crowley was about to ~~whine~~ respond when Aziraphale carried on, 

“You’re not!” 

“...What?” Crowley asked, not really grasping where this was going. 

“You’re not dying!” Aziraphale said. “I found out what’s wrong! Of course, I had to...update my methods, slightly, which involved a rather embarrassing incident involving three old ladies at a local library12, and...” 

“Angel, what the heaven are you on about?” Crowley whined. “If you’re not going to get to the point, at least let me go and waste away in peace.” 

“Fatshedera lizei!” 

Crowley pulled the receiver away from his ear and stared at it for a moment13. 

“[Tree ivy](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Fatshedera_lizei)!” Aziraphale continued, as if he somehow knew this had happened and had been waiting patiently. 

“I bloody know _that_ ,” Crowley growled. “Why in Satan’s name are you bothering me about it?” 

“Well,” Aziraphale said, slow and drawn out and rather guilty-sounding, “you know how on Wednesday afternoon we were in that arboretum? And you saw that sample of tree ivy, and I somehow remembered you mentioning way back in...1911 was it?...that you wanted a sample of that particular species but you’ve never managed to acquire one?” 

Crowley stared at his now cold “soup”, torn between continuing this conversation and doing something less awkward, like telling Beelzebub that she looked pretty. He played with the telephone wire for a bit. 

“...Yes? And?” he replied. “You gave me one over dinner. Did you need it back? Honestly, I don’t know where I’ve put it...” 

Said sample of tree ivy, were it able to arch an eyebrow, would have done so from its position in front of Crowley, on Crowley’s desk. 

“For God’s sake, Crowley!” Aziraphale said; he sounded rather worried. “Get rid of the cursed thing!” 

“What?” Crowley said, knocking his bowl of cold, flavourless orange paste to the floor. He’d deal with that later. “Why? What if I don’t _want_ t-” He stopped himself short, staring right at said plant. Taking a deep breath, he continued, “And who are _you_ to tell _me_ what to do?!” 

“It clears toxic energy from the room!” Aziraphale really sounded quite distressed. Crowley allowed himself a small smile, as no one else was there14. “You’re a _demon_ , don’t you see? You’re made up of _entirely_ toxic energy!” 

Crowley was going to take that as a compliment, but also...he stared at the tree ivy. He could have sworn it was staring back. He glared at it, then thought better of himself for getting into a possible staring match with a plant. 

“I’ll deal with it,” he said eventually. “And I’ll thank you not to go giving me poisonous plants in the future.” 

“How was I supposed to know?” Aziraphale asked, somehow both contrite and exasperated at the same time. “ _You’re_ the plant expert.” 

A few moments passed where Aziraphale had no more to say, and Crowley refused to admit that yes maybe he should have done slightly more research given his horticultural proclivities. It stretched on long enough that Crowley nearly asked if Aziraphale was still on the line. 

“I can’t believe I’m asking this,” Aziraphale’s voice broke said silence, “but...would you like me to come get rid of it?” 

“Oh, bugger off and leave me _alone_ ,” Crowley pinched the bridge of his nose and let out a long sigh, muttering about bloody angels and their meddling and such. “I’ll deal with the bloody thing.” 

As touched as he was by Aziraphale’s offer, he couldn’t just _let_ an angel _help_ him. Exiled from Hell he may be, that desperate he was decidedly not15. 

“Very well, then, I shall,” Aziraphale said, primly. “...Are we still on for next week?” 

“Yup,” Crowley made sure to pop the “p” obnoxiously. Then he hung up the phone without saying goodbye. He was feeling better already. 

Then he turned his attention to the offending plant. 

“...Thought you could get away with this, did you?” he hissed. “Coming in here, all unassuming? Thinking that because an _angel_ gave you to me, I’d keep you no matter what?16” He stood up, looming over the tree ivy and feeling some menacing energy coming back to him. “Well, _no dice_.” 

He picked up the ivy in its plant pot, and then stalked into his plant room. He took the time to look menacingly around at the rest of his greenery, letting them know through expression alone that their current state of affairs was entirely unacceptable and _would not_ continue. 

“Listen here, you lot,” he growled. “Yeah, I was sick for a few days. That is _no excuse_ to start _slacking_.” Crowley held the tree ivy up for all the rest of his flora to see. “I’ve found the problem, and now I’m going to solve it. The rest of you had better buck your ideas up, or you’ll follow where _this_ one is going. _DO YOU UNDERSTAND_?!” 

He could hear the rustle of quivering leaves and stems as he sauntered toward the garbage disposal, and he grinned, feeling lighter than he had in days. It would seem that he would be back to normal in no time. And not too soon, either. He really _did_ hate high-waisted trousers. 

The next time they saw each other, Aziraphale didn't ask what had happened to the plant. And if, a few days earlier, he had found a very similar looking17 Fatshedera lizei on his desk in the bookshop, in a new and rather lovely pot18, with no note save for some easy-to-follow care instructions written in a very familiar hand...well, he wasn't going to mention that, either. 

* * *

  1. Crowley, in fact, had a top 5. Four of these involved bringing his newly recorporated Bentley with him beyond the veil, because he was a flash bastard (at least in his own mind, if no one else’s) who wanted to go out in style. [▲] 
  2. Sort of. [▲]
  3. Crowley had never really experienced the concept of “soup flavours”, as his meals with Aziraphale were usually less about him eating and more about the company (this was not something that he would ever admit to). This meant that Crowley was experiencing what he _supposed_ was tomato soup, but was in fact just a thick orange, piping hot paste with no flavour at all. [▲]
  4. Also dinner with Aziraphale. Now that they were both sort of...out of a job, as it were, they happened to have more free time. And as they were the only two eternal beings that either found even barely tolerable or relatable, they happened to be meeting more frequently than they used to. [▲]
  5. Who, according to Aziraphale, had never paid off his tab at the bookshop. Neither had Lord Nelson, Marie Curie, or Mama Cass. [▲]
  6. Surprisingly, there were occasions when even The Ritz could not allow for a miracle vacancy. These usually involved American diplomats, as was the case here. [▲]
  7. Crowley was vaguely aware of the concept of “Yo!Sushi”, but would never understand why humanity would even consider reminding themselves of the days when they had to chase food before they could eat it. Especially when said food was already dead and ready to be eaten. [▲]
  8. A rare enough occurrence that it’s worthy of note. [▲]
  9. Apart from one plant in particular, which was already confident (and permitted to be) for reasons previously discussed and never mentioned by anyone out loud ever again 👀. [▲]
  10. Rather rudely, he thought. [▲]
  11. Well he didn’t have to be polite once he was _on_ the call. It was all about balance, after all. [▲]
  12. This was never, and never will be, expanded on or explained fully. [▲]
  13. The words “What the _fuck_ ” may have left his lips, but if they did, they did so silently and so with plausible deniability. [▲]
  14. The tree ivy could see. The tree ivy knew. [▲]
  15. Yet, anyway. Had Aziraphale called two hours later, Crowley’s attitude may very well have been different. [▲]
  16. Had the phonecall we just witnessed not happened, this would have, in fact, been the case (especially given the angel in question). Crowley was never going to admit that, though. [▲]
  17. One could, in fact, say that it was identical. [▲]
  18. A choice which was obviously, in no way, one that took three garden centres and an entire afternoon to make. 👀. [▲]




End file.
